


To Heal The Healer

by elrondhalfelven



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I just love Elrond, Injured Elrond, Major Character Injury, Poor Elrond, Rivendell | Imladris, Second Age
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29130453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrondhalfelven/pseuds/elrondhalfelven
Summary: Elrond is gravely injured by the arrow of an orc whilst patrolling his newly deemed stronghold of Imladris. As he falters, those around him come to realise just how reliant they are upon the injured Lord.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When the healer is in need of healing.  
> Strangely, the outlines of this particular 'injured Elrond' fanfiction came to me in a dream. I am only slightly obsessed....
> 
> For the sake of this story I have assumed that Elrond leads his own patrols (as seen in The Hobbit film verse). I have also set the events of this story to take place just after the very first White Council Meeting, around SA 1701.

It was a simple route, one which they had taken on many occasions, always for the same purpose; to ensure the safety of the small realm that Elrond had established. Despite the evil that had materialised from without, Imladris had- thus far- remained a safe haven for all those who dwelt there, a number growing with every passing day, as Eregion fell to ruin all about them. 

Though winter was upon the land, the day had begun relatively mildly, save for the remnants of snowfall that were evident upon the ground. Elrond had led a small group of warriors on horseback out of the inner settlement and through the surrounding woodlands, with Glorfindel his close friend riding beside him, the two conversing good-naturedly as they set for those following a steady yet brisk pace. The borders of the realm had still been damp with morning dew as they cantered along, and it had been to the pleasure of all- Elrond not least- that there was nothing in the way of foul creatures; instead, foxes and badgers could be seen going about their business from behind the trees. 

It came as something of a shock, then, that upon their return journey they were greeted with the distinctive sound of a warg’s howl from afar. The company of riders drew their horses to a sudden halt.

“It sounds as though there is only one rider.” Elrond told his company. “We ought to determine from whence the howl came. Perhaps then we shall take this lonesome creature by surprise- I do not believe that we have just heard the call of a warg who has caught the scent of his prey.” 

The riders followed the direction of the noise they had heard all the way up to a steep hill of jagged rock. Silently, Elrond beckoned for the warriors to dismount so that they could search the area for their foe, who seemed to have disappeared into the mist that the early hour had brought upon the land.

Elrond had just begun to unsheathe his sword, the warriors around him doing similarly, when he had suddenly felt something pierce him through his right shoulder; the impact of the blow bringing him to his knees. For a moment he felt no pain at all- though his head felt noticeably lighter and the world was beginning to spin around him- and then; utter anguish. He heard as though from afar as a moan of agony escaped his parted lips, the warriors around him blurring into their surroundings as Elrond watched them fighting valiantly the orcs that seemed to have ambushed them from the crevices above. He wanted to aid his friends in their strife, but the world was blackening about him and his eyelids seemed to have turned to lead. His eyes fluttered closed against his will, even as his knees failed to support him and he fell upon the rocky surface below. His last awareness was of something sharp impaling itself through his lower hip as his consciousness slipped away. 

ooooooooo

”He needs to drink. The arrow stole from him much blood.”

Cool metal was being pressed against his lips. Dimly, he was aware of a damp cloth against his forehead, a welcome change to the heat that his entire body seemed to have succumbed to. Was he on fire? No, he would perish in the flames. Then again….

“Trickle it in. Gently….” a cold hand was upon his throat, stroking it gently so as to coax the liquid steadily down. He wanted to gulp greedily at the icy water in an effort to banish the uncomfortable temperature he could not be rid of, but his throat- to his immense irritation- would not cooperate. He lay helplessly as the hand continued to help him drink the liquid his body would not take for him independently. 

After several minutes of enduring this situation, Elrond finally finished all of the palliative concoction- which proved not to be pure water at all; it had been mixed with an assortment of herbs that the healer within Elrond recognised as those which are renowned for lessening the pain of a patient. When at long last it seemed that his body was willing to obey his mind, he struggled to open eyelids that felt far too heavy for his weakened body.

“Ah, so now you awaken, mellon nîn. I had thought it was your intention to sleep through the next few months- though knowing you, that would be far too boring.”

The voice held a familiar tone of light humour, though Elrond’s mind had to work for a few minutes to put a name to the face that was coming into focus above him. He turned the corners of his leaden mouth upwards into a weak smile as he watched his King settle into the chair next to his bedside.

“How are you feeling?” Gil-Galad posed him the question, his tone making it sound to Elrond like something of a passing remark. He would have almost been fooled by his King’s mock comfortableness, had it not been for the crease he spotted between the royal’s dark brows that seemed so out of place on his friend's usually relaxed face.

“Well enough. Tired.” Elrond lied, trying to hide the agony that was lined in his every feature. He had taken the healer’s pain remedy; it would only be a matter of time before that statement proved to be true.

“You are impossible, Elrond. No one but you would receive an arrow through their back and then decide that they were ‘well enough’. That wound on your leg does not look very reassuring either.”

His friend nodded pointedly at the bandages that were swathed around his upper body, though it was not this part of the sentence which had caught Elrond’s attention. Gil-Galad’s words had made him aware of a throbbing pain centred around his right hip; Elrond's still sluggish mind could not recall the cause of such a wound. He tried to retort, but the effort suddenly seemed too taxing for his inert tongue. He closed his eyes briefly, before opening them once more when another person entered the room, adorned in healer’s blue.

“How is he?” The unfamiliar elf asked, his eyes examining Elrond intently.

“He said he was tired.” Elrond heard Gil-Galad reply, his friend raising an eyebrow knowingly at him as Elrond opened his mouth to argue before thinking better of it and falling silent.

“Yes, I expect he is. You have had quite an eventful day, my Lord Elrond.” His tone was that of someone who was reprimanding a particularly badly behaved child, evoking an irritated glare from Elrond; a look which was promptly ignored by his impertinent carer, to his mounting frustration.

Elrond’s eyes followed the healer warily as he collected from the corner an already made sleeping draught, taking the medicine into one hand and a glass tumbler into the other. Once the concoction had been poured out, his carer slid a gentle hand underneath Elrond’s shoulder blades, careful not to disturb the wound that lay there and placed the tumbler delicately upon his bottom lip, dribbling slowly the liquid into his mouth and down his throat. Elrond was relieved to find that on this occasion he had the strength to swallow the drink down entirely for himself, his exhausted body entering readily into a deep slumber of strange dreams and visions of times not yet come to pass.


	2. Chapter 2

Elrond’s first awareness when he awoke was of the throbbing headache which had arisen seemingly whilst he slept, the agony unceasing. His immediate reaction was to lean back in search of support for his aching head, but instead he met with a strong arm around his upper back preventing him from such a notion. A soft moan conveyed to his captor what words could not- his leaden tongue still irritatingly uncooperative- and he felt a second arm move to hold the back of his head, guiding him gently into something firm and yet soft, which he leaned into gratefully. After settling into this new, much more comfortable position, the pounding of his head began to dull slightly into a much more bearable ache.

The little healer’s room smelt distinctly of herbs and medicines, but there was also the faint smell of fresh linen about the air. Elrond was conscious too of the strange way he had been arranged: he was being held from his torso upwards in an almost seated position, but his head was cradled against what Elrond now believed was the person’s chest. Slowly, and with no small amount of difficulty, he pried his fatigued eyelids open. 

The scene that met him would have been confusing even if he had not still been slightly vague in mind. The person cradling his limp body proved to be the High King himself; something which Elrond would have found slightly humiliating under normal circumstances, though at present his gratitude far overwhelmed his pride. He could hear the faint rustling of cloth behind him, though Gil-Galad’s body blocked whatever was occuring from his line of sight. Blearily, he glanced up at his friend, searching his face for some sort of explanation. His King’s eyes locked with his own.

“The healer is just changing the linens of your bed,” Gil-Galad explained to him. “You were unwell during the night, if you recall. The arrow was smothered with some foul poison we had not encountered before. As such, it was not detected until you...brought it back up again.”

Elrond felt his cheeks redden slightly. He did not recall the last night as his friend seemed to believe he would, but the knowledge that he had been unconsciously lying in a bed of his own sick did nothing to soothe his already mounting embarrassment, as the pain subsided and the fog around his mind began to clear. He glanced away in discomfort.

“Are you hungry?” His friend asked, as an afterthought. “You did not break your fast this morning. Or take your evening meal last night, come to think of it.”

Elrond opened his mouth to respond, but the healer behind them got the first word in.

“He will be. Let me finish this chore here, and then I shall retrieve his supper from the kitchens.”

 _Supper?_ His King’s words had given him the impression that it was still morning. Elrond had never been the sort to relish in the unexpected; he preferred to be kept in the know about all that went on around him. He wished fervently that he could tell Gil-Galad and this healer to speak to him in precise and detailed terms, rather than to simply say whatever came into their minds at the time. Instead, he was left to contemplate his unanswered questions in silence as the healer finished his work, and Elrond felt the chest he leant on begin to hum a wordless tune, still supporting the useless Herald.

“You can lower him back down now, your majesty.” Elrond heard the healer tell his helper, surveying him critically. He closed his eyes as his friend eased him down into the comfort of the newly washed pillows; they had about them not even the faintest smell of his bile, for which Elrond was immensely grateful. He was only too ready to banish that particular humiliation from his thoughts.

He had never taken his jaunty friend for the motherly sort, Elrond thought to himself with slight amusement as Gil-Galad laid a blanket over his legs. Actually, why _was_ the High King of the Noldor coddling him? Surely he had more important matters to attend to than his invalid Herald...

"Why…” Elrond finally managed to verbalise his thoughts, startled by the hoarse quality of his own voice. He cleared his throat awkwardly before trying again. “Why are you here?”

“Why? Am I not allowed to make sure that my Herald is well after spending the night with fever and nausea?” Gil-Galad stared at him incredulously, eyebrows drawn together in bewilderment. “You do remember why you are here, don’t you Elrond? Last night…”

“Yes I know why I am here.” Elrond snapped, suddenly finding his voice once more in his irritation. “You keep speaking of last night. But I do not recall any of the events which you tell me of. I want to know…” He broke off abruptly in a fit of chesty coughs, the King immediately kneeling at his side and rubbing circles onto his back until the attack subsided.

“You do not remember?” Gil-Galad asked him, his concern evident in his tone. “You caught fever. You were...seeing things that were not there. And then you were sick, as you know.”

“I was hallucinating.” Elrond said dully, understanding dawning upon him. “A common side effect of fever. But that does not answer my question; why are _you_ here? You are the King, your duties…” Elrond ceased to speak intentionally this time, exhausted by his efforts but in need of answers.

“What duties? I am the King yes, but these are your lands, Elrond. What is more, the things that I do need to do…” his friend gestured helplessly with his hands. “I do not believe I fully appreciated how much you do for me, mellon nîn. I do not know half as much about taxes and such things as you do. This past week has been difficult for everyone; though not as hard as it has been for you, I am certain.”

Elrond had not thought about that. It was selfish of him to lay here without use, utterly neglecting his duties. To think that it had been a week! In his mind it was a couple of days since he was wounded at best. He attempted to pull himself into a sitting position, but the firm hands of his King once again held him in place.

“Not yet Elrond, mellon nîn. You are too weak.”

“I must.” Elrond replied, exerting all of his strength in his battle with his close friend’s grip. “It has been too long already.” He wanted to prove to Gil-Galad that he was more than capable of getting out of bed, but his companion was unyielding in his efforts and eventually Elrond’s weakened body was forced to sink back into the sheets in utter defeat. He turned away from his friend’s knowing gaze, humiliated.

Only upon the re-entry of Elrond’s healer was their silence broken. Elrond watched stoically as the other healer set a bowl of stew down upon the countertop, turning to survey him assessingly.

“Your hairline is moist.” The elf informed him. “Perhaps I misjudged the situation. Has the fever returned?” The healer turned from Elrond and looked instead to the elf seated at his bedside, who’s gaze Elrond could still feel upon the back of his forehead.

"No. It has not. The fault is mine; I think I might have startled my Herald.” Elrond turned his eyes back to his King in confusion. 

“I am sorry, Elrond. I forget how you like to know what is happening around you. What is it that you would like me to tell you?” 

“The date, perhaps?” Elrond replied, a faint smile touching his lips. His King truly did understand him better than any other.


	3. Chapter 3

Elrond glared coldly at the healer standing over him, jaw set in defiance. It had been almost two and a half weeks since he was wounded now- longer than many elves he knew would spend recovering from arrow wounds- yet the most Elrond had been allowed to do in this amount of time was to be carried from his bed and into an armchair closeby. 

“This is absurd.” Elrond told the healer for the hundredth time, whose name he had still yet to learn. Not that he had bothered to ask. A bitter part of him was reminded of how little he cared for such pleasantries, with the same elf who had refused to allow him even to wash himself clean every morning without assistance. 

“I am perfectly capable of doing my duties as usual. I have no desire to be coddled by you or any other for longer than is necessary.”

“There is nothing about your situation that is ridiculous, Lord Elrond." The healer replied steadily. "Furthermore, you are not- for the last time- being coddled or infantilised or whatever else you deem my treating of your wounds. You do not yet have the strength for such strenuous activity as you propose. Nor will you, if you keep on exerting yourself in argument. Rest now, and your paperwork awaits you for when I deem you fit enough to return to it.”

Elrond scowled at the healer in a show of his resentment. Though over these last weeks his needs had been attended to by many different healers, Elrond had long ago decided that this particular one he liked the least. The greying elf was older than the others; the voice that was used when addressing Elrond always both patronising and resolutely final. It seemed to Elrond that, whilst the others of his order could be made to relent to the will of their ward eventually, the irksome elderly carer viewed his patient to be more of a child than a Lord of lands.

The healer within Elrond had reluctantly acknowledged many days ago that the elf was probably correct in his assumptions. Although Elrond was able to remain calm even on the fields of battle, his panic had risen so suddenly the first time he had attempted standing with support that he had been left feeling short of breath and with a strange nausea akin to seasickness. Even sitting in the armchair as he was now- though both seat and stool were adorned with many pillows and blankets for him- gave to him an ever-present chill and fatigue. Yet despite his obvious weakness, Elrond also felt keenly the responsibility of managing his newly-built realm; certainly, Imladris was still many a long year away from being finished, but what sort of Lord of the land was he if he could not even rouse himself from his sickbed to aid the building of his own home? 

“You should not make yourself irrationally stressed.” The elderly healer told him from the corner of the room, fiddling with various knick-knacks as Elrond sat pondering his condition sullenly. Could this healer read his thoughts? The notion made him cringe inwardly at his lack of respect for his carer, in both mind and word. It was not the elderly elf’s fault that his useless body was refusing to work properly, after all. Elrond’s thoughts once again turned to bitterness.

“I am sorry.” he replied, both sincerity and frustration evident in his tone. “The fault is not with you but with I.”

“There is no fault to be had.” The healer’s voice startled Elrond, for he had never heard it so exasperated before. “My Lord Elrond, listen to me, I beg of you. Your body is neither working slowly nor reluctantly. It responds to all of my medicine as expected. You have worked yourself into a state because you assume that you do not heal at a sufficient rate, but recovery from poison takes time. You need rest and peace in thought to heal.”

“How can I be at peace within myself knowing that, because of my incapability, my realm has lost its Lord? The yuletide celebrations shall occur soon, and here I shall be; an invalid on my people’s first midwinter. How splendid.” Elrond was slightly ashamed of his own pettishness, but the gloomy words he had spoken were said in truth and revealed to the other what had long played on his mind. The yuletide was Elrond’s most favoured time of the year; the singing, the dancing and above all else the merriment of his people was something that Elrond held very close to his heart. To know that he may miss such festivities, especially now that he had his own realm and peoples to govern, weighed heavily on Elrond’s mind.

The healer’s expression softened at his words. “We have yet a week until such celebrations occur. There are many here who have taken on willingly the tasks of preparation in your absence. Although it is my wish that you rest until you are fully recovered, I know that all here would be greatly pained as well if you were absent at a time of such joy.” The healer furrowed his brow in thought. “I shall speak to the High King. Perhaps we will be able to find a solution which would benefit all.”

Elrond felt a faint flicker of hope rekindled within himself, and his sullen mood became notably brighter. “That would be most agreeable. You have my sincere thanks.” He replied eagerly.

“Indeed. In turn, my Lord Elrond, you must rest for me now. If you truly hope to be well enough to join your people in their festivities, then this is the best remedy I know of for restoring your strength.”

“I shall. Only, I wish to speak to the King when he returns from his patrol.” He waved a hand weakly at the pile of papers by his elbow, which had been brought in for him by a reluctant Erestor that morning, upon his beseech. At the startled look of his carer, he added swiftly, “To help me with. I have already read or been read to several times this week, have I not? That is all I wish for.”

“And another will write for you?” The healer asked, somewhat sceptically.

“Of course.” Elrond affirmed, nodding his head in confirmation.

“Very well. I shall send for his majesty as soon as the patrol returns.”

Elrond nodded gratefully in reply, suffering the older elf’s attentions once more as the blankets and pillows around him were positioned to his comfort. Whilst doing so his healer made sure not to disturb or touch his lower hip which, Elrond was told, had been impaled by a fallen arrow after he fell to the ground on that disastrous day. The injury had regretfully gone unnoticed by his healers until a few days after his being returned to Imladris; though the infection had been mild and cured with little difficulty, the wound itself was slow to close and painful indeed when jolted or touched.

Shortly after his every need had been attended to, his carer departed the little healing room with the instruction for Elrond to call for him if he was in want of something; consequently leaving the invalid to his own thoughts and boredom. A brief glance out of the window told Elrond that it was well nigh midday, and heeding the healer’s advice to rest he picked up a book from the little table beside his elbow and set it upon his blanketed legs, reading through each page with interest until slumber took him and he could not help but to doze in the quiet of the afternoon.


	4. Chapter 4

A young ellon, not yet come to his maturity, sat in front of an ivory desk embellished with fine flourishes of intertwining patterns that were distinctly Noldorin. His hair was twilight-shadow dark and plaited in a manner suggestive of his nobility. Though his skin was noticeably darker than that of the Eldar, his finely-shaped face recognisably portrayed his elven heritage. Grey eyes were staring sullenly into a mirror, reflecting the clearness of the evening outside and their depths portrayed a form of deep, embedded sorrow. They flickered now from the mirror and to the corner of the room, where a chest of trifles lay open upon the floor. The smell of pine leaves encased the room and it brought to Elrond’s features the faintest glimmer of light as his mouth turned ever so slightly upwards. Reaching for the burgundy chest, he was just about to fumble through the contents when on a sudden an arrow pierced him through the chest; so unforeseen that a quiet gasp escaped his lips before he keeled over atop the decorations; blood drowning his hope.

ooooooooo

He awoke to the muffled sound of voices conversing quietly, one very close to his ear and the other further across the room.

“We will have to see how he fares for the rest of the week, but if his recovery continues at this speed then I can not see how it would be inadvisable.”

“Splendid.” A slight pause, “How he gets through all of these scrolls even in usual health, I do not know. There are so many of them! And with his other duties, too...it is a wonder he does not collapse with exhaustion.”

As a languished Elrond slowly regained some form of understanding, his somnolent mind began to comprehend that the person being discussed was none other than himself. Blinking open leaden eyelids, he made a show of sighing loudly as evidence of his sudden wakefulness. Immediately, the room's other two occupants turned their attention solely to the invalid.

“Elrond.” The person closest to the well furnished armchair shifted in his seat to rest a hand upon his forearm, the face of the High King coming blurrily into focus above him. “How are you?”

Though the question was not rhetorical, his friend did not wait for a response before pressing a glass of cool water to Elrond’s lips. He hesitated before accepting the offered drink, curling his weakened fingers meagrely around the tumbler so that they were resting atop the King’s own grasp on the translucent cup. If he were to be deemed well enough to attend the yuletide feasting, he would have to begin to convince those who were making the decision. His helper did not comment, though nor did he relinquish his grasp, as Elrond gulped down the cooling liquid.

“I am feeling much better, thank you. You have begun to look at the scrolls and papers?” He tried to lend strength to his voice, though it still came out sounding much more course and diminished than he would have liked.

“Yes. They are rather...hard to understand.” Elrond glanced only briefly at the scroll that Gil-Galad gently placed upon his knees, for he knew immediately what had brought about his friend’s confusion.

“They are _Cirth Ithil,_ only to be seen by the light of a moon of the same shape and season as the day on which they were written. I merely need to decide which moon exactly that was. If you bring me that book on the forms of Ithil from over there I shall be able to tell you.”

He watched futilely as his companion stood and strode over to a pile of thick pages bound with flimsy silver strings and heavy material, fumbling through them with a thumb before selecting the one that Elrond required. The book, an ebony leather-bound copy of a Valinorian piece of scripture, was set upon Elrond’s blanket legs alongside the runes, written in invisible flourishes across the archaic scroll. With the aid of his close friend’s penmanship, the markings were eventually coherently translated and set to one side to make way for the next ancient scroll or ink-stained paper of sums necessary for Imadris’ upkeep. After this way of events had been repeated a good many times, Elrond found his scanty amount of vigour utterly spent; his hands had begun to quiver ever so slightly when he picked up a map or scroll for closer examination and a fine sheen of perspiration was mounting atop his brow. Determined though he was to finish this tedious duty, Elrond’s efforts were put to a halt when his assistant and King, watchful over the wounded lore master’s condition, lay a careful hand upon his forehead.

“You are feverish, mellon nin. I think it would be wise for us to conclude now and for you to deservedly rest.”

Elrond opened his mouth to utter words of protest, but the healer- who had crept in silently whilst his patient had been concentrated on the task at hand- addressed him with his own voice of reason.

“You shall rest now without complaint please, my Lord Elrond. If the plan for the yuletide celebrations is to go ahead then you must take my decisions for wisdom and do as I say.”

“The plan? I was not aware that there was a plan.” Elrond raised his eyebrows in bewilderment, sceptical gaze altering between the two seemingly conspiracists. After an almost imperceptible pause- though it had not gone unnoticed by Elrond- the King gave answer to his rather offended query.

“Yes. Forgive me, Elrond- I must have completely forgotten to inform you of the healer’s decision regarding your attendance to the yuletide celebrations.”

Elrond’s breath caught in his throat, though he berated himself for it afterwards. Why should he act like a hopeful child? It was only a feast after all, there was no need for him to get as anxious as he was now. 

“And which decision would you be referring to?” he prompted, schooling his emotions into a face of outward impassiveness.

“If you are well next week and your recovery continues, then you have been deemed fit enough to join us.”

Elrond returned with sincerity the smile that the King gave to him as he concluded his sentence. He knew it should be ridiculous, to feel so strongly about something so unimportant, yet to Elrond it had never been so. He welcomed the eager anticipation that always mounted in the hearts of the elven folk as the yuletide drew nearer, even took delight in feeling such himself. For his joy to have been diminished thus far was unfortunate in itself, but he still had several days to feel that elation in full ardour. Even now, he could feel the beginnings of his excitement dwelling in his chest. 

“You will have to provide your own conscious effort for a swift recovery too though, Lord Elrond. I shall begin to aid you in your exercises to regain muscle strength on the morrow.”

“Very well.” A small part of his mind desired to know what such an activity would entail, yet his joviality was far greater than his inquisitiveness and within himself Elrond determined to behave precisely as requested henceforth, so as to not do anything that would provoke the steadfast healer to change his mind on the matter.


	5. Chapter 5

Elrond turned his head away from the admonishing look of his healer- keeping vigil in the chair adjacent to his bedside- and toward the intricately carved bay window which framed the opposite wall; withholding from him the realm without that he so desperately wished to flourish alongside once more. Indeed, the sight that met his eyes would have been enticing, had the grandiose glass been within his line of sight; when he was allowed moments of wakefulness in the velvet armchair he would be contented for hours merely at the sight of his people, vigorous and without weakness, busying themselves with the winter preparations even in his absence; the craftsmen had already begun to fashion slabs of oak into sledges designed for tarrying through the hardened ice, veiling his lands even as the drawn willowy curtains withheld from his eyes the encapsulating beauty of Imladris; Ai, how he yearned to hear the mirthful waters chuckle secrets into his ears once more!

“You will see it shortly.” A stern but not unkindly voice penetrated his blissful reminiscence. Elrond expressed his irritation glaringly, casting dark eyes upon the supposed carer who kept him from the merriment his heart desired to succumb to.

“Or, you could open those curtains and put that ridiculous stick you brandish as a sword down at once. I need it not, which I shall promptly demonstrate to you would you but remove your hands from my chest.” If the newly-made Lord’s tone lacked momentum, the glare which accompanied his words demonstrated precisely what the invalid was attempting to convey. Elrond’s smile was more than slightly smug as he watched the other ellon shake his head in utter exasperation.

“Elrond. You are being difficult again, though you promised not to be. You will need the walking stick if you are to attend the yuletide feasting as is your wish, despite your stubborn nature. Please, do as you are required to now and allow us to aid you in standing.” 

Once more the object of his resentment was thrust into his hands, a strong palm against his back as the King carefully guided him into a sitting position. In truth, Elrond did not believe for a moment that he were capable of standing as his friend and healer would have him do; he had wholly spent his meagre amount of strength in his adamant protesting and beads of sweat were gathering upon his ailing body merely at the act of remaining upright. Such weakness combined with the humiliation that mounted within him at the thought of being seen thus diminished, in need of both the bodily support of his helpers and the finely embellished walking stick that the healer had presented him with earlier did not bode well for Elrond. The scowling irritation that he was so renowned for returned in full force, jaw set in defiance even as his overly taxed body repented the exertion of further argument.

“I will not! This is absurd. I have done naught but lay in this forsaken bed for weeks now upon the urging of necessary rest from the two of you. I am perfectly able to walk for myself, so I shall; I alone am the Lord of these lands.” 

“Very well then. Do not take the proffered help that I know you require, it matters not to me. Yet if you do not, the healer has already promised that you will not be able to attend the feasting. The choice is yours, Elrond.”

Sighing whole-heartedly in his frustration at the sheer embarrassment of the situation regarding his useless form, Elrond closed leaden eyes in evidence of his resignation. His friend’s words had left no room for self-pity nor further debate; the logical part of Elrond’s mind recognised the need for support, felt it in the hot flushes of his paling cheeks and dampened forehead. 

“It becomes clear to me that there is little in the way of choice, but I abide by your will nonetheless.” 

“Very good, my Lord Elrond!” his healer arose from the wooden chair that he sat upon, clasping his hands together in patronisingly exaggerated merriment. Elrond restrained himself with some difficulty from rolling his eyes. The sooner he could be among his people once more and away from this detestable sickbed, so much the better. 

The actual task of moving Elrond into a standing position proved to be more difficult than either of the two aiding him had anticipated. His ailing form sagged against that of his friend as soon as his trembling legs had been carefully eased over the side of the bed, so that his naked feet were touching the intricate porcelain tiles of the flooring. Bile was mounting horribly from the pits of Elrond’s stomach and ascending his throat; the foul but distinctive taste of nausea evident upon his tongue. Every morsel of his diminished form protested the sequence of actions undertaken, until his limp arm was draped over the shoulders of his carer whilst the King wrapped a supporting arm about his waist. Weakened fingers entwining themselves with the linen of the scarlet tunic beside his own, Elrond allowed his head to loll against his friend’s chest; greatly repenting his stubborn nature as the sickly feeling surged within him once more and his legs quivered helplessly, perilously close to buckling beneath him. 

“I am not so sure about this, he is turning pale as the sheets he lay in…” 

“He has not left his sickbed in many days, what did you expect would occur?” Elrond’s gaze briefly met that of his healer, as the older ellon swept assessing eyes over the wounded Lord. 

“I am quite assured that you will be alright, Lord Elrond. Your progress in recovery will be gradual but timely; you need only take a few steps for now.” 

“I will do this.” Elrond mumbled, unsure as to whom he was trying to convince. Nonetheless, his resilience prevailed as he fought back the pain and fatigue which lingered in the very marrow of his limbs, swallowing against nausea and weakness whilst blinking away the shadows rimming his line of sight. Slowly, he essayed a shaky step; tightening his grip on the supporting arms beside him. His entire body trembled at the mere exertion of the task at hand, a thin sheen of perspiration dampening his forehead. Setting his jaw in defiance of the illness that encased his being, Elrond felt the hands of his friend almost imperceptibly tighten around his elbow as he hesitantly moved forwards once more; the blackness returning to his vision and seeping through his mind so that even his thoughts were veiled by mist. Another hand pressed against his shoulders, gently pushing him down to a sitting position as he felt his consciousness slipping away. The hands slid towards the back of his hair, further darkened by the sweat which now adorned the entirety of his body and eased him further downward so that his head was resting between his legs as all present within the room waited for the waves of illness to pass.

At length, Elrond regained some form of perception of his surroundings as the veiling mist withdrew and the blood flowed once more through his pale features. His healer, kneeling at his side, waited patiently for those clouded eyes to become wholly focused before speaking his instruction;

“‘Twas a taxing exertion that I had you undertake, my Lord Elrond. Perhaps I was at fault to have moved you so swiftly through the stages of recovery. Nevertheless, you have done very well, all obstacles taken into consideration. You should lay down once more and engage in some well-deserved rest.”

Despite Elrond’s sudden humiliation at the realisation that he had not even managed to walk farther than the length of the sickbed he sat upon, he complied meagrely with the feather-light touch that lowered him backwards into the plumped, linen pillows of the heavily blanketed pallet, mustering what little strength he had left to brush his own slender fingers against the wrist of the King in a leaden show of gratitude as he observed his friend tucking blankets about his restful form. It served as a testimony to Elrond’s exhaustion that he succumbed to sleep mere moments later.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Elrond. Thank you for reading!
> 
> I am also @LordofImladris on instagram and @elrondperedhel on pinterest, if you enjoy my Elrond Peredhel musings.


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